


We'll Meet Again Some Sunny Day

by Trillsabells



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Gen, RAF - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:30:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trillsabells/pseuds/Trillsabells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WW2 AU. One stormy night Douglas bumps into an old friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Meet Again Some Sunny Day

The rain lashed at the windows, filling the moody silence with a sound too like gunfire for his comfort. The wind howled and shook the corrugated iron roof, putting a stutter into the otherwise steady drip of water into the tin pots and pans set out to catch the intruding rain. A radio was playing possibly the most depressing music ever written for the piano and the only sounds from his companions were the occasional turn of a page or the footsteps of those whose bladders had finally overridden their deep desire not to get drowned.

Quite frankly, it was bloody miserable.

For what must have been the hundredth time that night he wished he could be home and in bed. But the Army had cancelled his train and the ATA hadn’t bothered to find him somewhere to stay the night so here he was, sitting on the slightly more comfortable of the two torture devices this airfield had the nerve to call chairs – his feet were up on the other one – trying to get some shut eye under a damp rag that may have, at one point, been a blanket.

No wonder they were losing the bloody war.

Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, laughter echoed. Female laughter.

Well at least someone was having a good time.

He had arrived that morning shortly before the sky turned from mildly threatening to looking like it would brutally rip apart anyone who dared go up a small slope, let alone dare to actually leave the ground. Unsurprisingly, within twenty minutes of his arrival, the pilots based at the airstrip he was currently relegated to had taken one look at the sky and decided they didn’t fancy it. Two hours later one of his female colleagues arrived in a freshly repaired, ironically named given the weather, Hurricane. That had put all the male pilots in a foul mood, not helped when the women ATA officers, along with the onsite WAAFs, had taken over the canteen for a celebration in mockery. Normally he would have been right in there with them, partying with his colleagues. But last time he had been out for a drink with them they had called him ‘Granddad’ and said they always knew they were safe with him because they knew he wouldn’t within a hundred years try something on them, unlike those young bucks.

It wasn’t that he minded being safe, obviously he didn’t want anyone going out and getting hurt and woe betide the ‘young buck’ who tried to hurt one of his girls. And besides, he was married, of course he wouldn’t try anything on, nothing serious at least. But standing there at the bar, watching those… children really, dance with all the young boys in their spiffing uniforms, well it made him feel old.

Still, they sounded like they were having a hell of a better time in there than anyone was having in here. And it wasn’t as if he was getting any sleep anyway. He could pop his head in.

Putting aside the rag he got to his feet and straightened his uniform. His jacket was wrinkled but that couldn’t be helped. It had been far too cold to take it off. Grabbing his hat he headed for the laughter. 

Just as he passed the door it swung open, splattering him with gust propelled raindrops. He put up his hands to shield himself, but was unable to protect himself from the returning toilet goer slipping on the damp floor and crashing right into him, tumbling them both to the floor.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he grumbled, shoving the idiot, who had landed right on top of him, away.

“I’m sorry, I am really so sorry,” said the idiot, trying to get to his feet but clearly having trouble getting cold shaking hands to keep a grip on the sodden floor. “It was the wind you see and I couldn’t- Douglas?”

The man had finally pushed himself into an upright enough position to sweep drenched ginger hair out of the way and reveal an incredibly familiar face.

“Martin!” he said. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“We were forced to divert because of the storm, what are you-“

“Are you going to leave that door open all night?” a voice from further in the room called out.

Douglas pushed himself to his feet, then slammed the door firmly shut before offering Martin a hand getting up. Martin offered a brief word of thanks before slouching off his saturated raincoat and wringing it out. Underneath was the crisp uniform of a RAF Flight Lieutenant and when Martin turned back towards him there was purpose in his bearing and power in his stance.

Dear Lord he only turned his back for five minutes and the little man had gone and grown up.

Now he felt even older.

“Why don’t we have a cup of tea,” he said. “For old times’ sake.”

“Er…” 

There was sudden trepidation on Martin’s face as he looked towards the lively canteen. Must face the Luftwaffe on a daily basis but women still made him nervous? Some things never change.

“I’ll face the harpies, you go find us a couple of chairs.”

He managed to complete his mission with only a few cat calls and returned with his prize to find Martin had snagged the exact pair of chairs he had been resting on shortly before. Naturally Martin had commandeered the ever so slightly more comfortable one.

“Here you go,” he said passing over one of the mugs. “It’s not rat poison but that’s probably the best thing that can be said for it.”

“Thanks,” said Martin, wrapping white fingers around it. “You know, there are days I actually miss Arthur’s tea.”

“Good god, you must be desperate. Where on earth have you been?”

“Liechtenstein, actually.”

“Liechtenstein?”

“Although Liechtenstein was last week. My squadron and I have been stuck in Kent since I got back and we were heading home to Dorset when we got diverted here.”

“Liechtenstein though, I thought they were neutral.”

“They are,” Martin said, taking a sip of his tea. “I got a bit lost on my way back from Munich. Got a couple of gerries on my tail, managed to take out my navigator and threw me off course. By the time I lost them I found myself headed straight for the Alps. I had to land, so I headed for Switzerland, but missed it by a few miles. I’m just glad I didn’t run into a mountain like you always said I would.”

Douglas tried not to wince, remembering the harsh words he had had with Martin before the younger man had signed up. He had been convinced the fool wouldn’t last five minutes and here he was blithely telling a story of derring-do behind enemy lines like it was just another one of the holiday jaunts they used to take people on before the war.

“Anyway the damage wasn’t too bad and I… er… got a bit of help.” There was a blush to Martin’s cheeks that suggested that uniform wasn’t quite as wasted on him as it once was. “Got back in the air and home.”

“Gosh,” he said. “Maybe you’ll get another medal to go along with your Cadet Forces one.”

“Well,” Martin said, looking away. “I’ve… er… got a few more now, actually.”

He should be bragging. He should be floating away with pride, desperate to show Douglas up with his new array of shiny things. What had happened to him in the last two years?

No, he knew exactly what had happened. The same thing that was happening to every young man who’d had a gun put into his hands.

Bloody war, there was no innocence anymore.

This was why he had been so angry. This was why he had been so scared.

They sat in silence for a moment. Outside the storm, incredibly, picked up even further. The rattling on the roof had stepped up from bullets to an all-out bombing raid.

“So you got called up then,” Martin said eventually. “Would have thought you’d have found some clever way to dodge it somehow.”

He would have been offended if it hadn’t been for the man he had met down the pub who promised that he could arrange for call up papers to get… mislaid. Bit of a useless contact in the end given that he was too old and the fool opposite him had gone and volunteered.

“Actually I volunteered.”

Now the stunned look he took offence at.

“Oh! Really?”

“ATA.”

Realisation dawned. “Oh of course,” Martin said with a smile. “Ancient and Tattered Airmen.” His eyes widened. “Not that you’re tattered of course. Or ancient! You’re not ancient or tattered or anything of the sort. In fact you’re quite spry for you age. I mean-“

He decided to show mercy. “We prefer the Air Transport Auxiliary.”

“Right,” Martin said with a relieved huff of air. “Are you… enjoying it?”

“Oh yes. Lots of flying, uniforms not bad and some very pretty co-workers.”

Martin just raised an eyebrow at his leer. “And how’s Helena?”

“She’s fine,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Running some orphans’ or refugees’ or some such charity in Coventry. Keeps her busy. How about you? Managed to attract the attention of a WAAF?”

“No, no not really.”

“Just the help in Liechtenstein then?”

The spluttering told him all he needed to know. He sipped at his tea with a smirk. Eventually Martin managed to get hold of himself enough to ask,

“So how’s Carolyn, do you hear from her at all?”

“Now and then. You know she sold GERTI?”

“Oh no, did she?”

Martin looked genuinely upset by the prospect. Douglas wondered if he had been picturing everything staying exactly as he left it, waiting for him to come home.

“Afraid so. Well, with no business she sold her as soon as she could. Said she wanted the money from her before she got requisitioned and she was left with nothing but the debts. Probably been stripped down for parts or scrap metal.”

“Poor GERTI,” Martin said, staring down into the dregs of his tea. “And Arthur? Did he get called up?”

“He did, but it turned out they didn’t want him.”

“What?”

“He reported for duty, as ordered, and lord knows what he said to them because next thing we know he’s been sent home with a note saying he’s unfit for active service, no reason given.”

Martin narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t….”

“I swear, I didn’t do a thing.”

After all, if his one hundred pound bribe had done any good the papers would never have shown up in the first place.

“Well that’s good, anyway. As long as he’s okay.”

For all that he had worried about Martin he would have been twice as scared if Arthur had been in the forces. Though for which side he was never sure.

“He’s in the Home Guard now.”

Martin choked on his tea and had to take a moment to cough it up.

“Well at least he’s not on the coast; he can’t do too much damage in Warwickshire.”

He chuckled and downed the last of his tea.

“When do you fly out?” he asked.

“As soon as the storm clears. You?” Martin said.

“I was on a delivery. I’ll be taking the first coach in the morning with a couple of those lovely ladies.”

“Well I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.”

As if on cue there was another burst of female laughter from the direction of the canteen. One of the other pilots a few seats away tsked as if having fun during wartime was a worse crime than queue cutting.

“Listen,” Martin said, fiddling with the cup in his hands. “About what you said, when I joined up-“

“Martin.”

“-about how I wasn’t a proper pilot-“

“Martin-“

“-and that I was an idiot to sign up and should at least wait for the papers-“

“Martin let’s not-“

“Please, Douglas, I just… I think I get it now, what you meant. And… thanks,” Martin shrugged. “For… caring really.”

He didn’t know what to say.

No, wait, yes he did.

“I didn’t do anything of the sort.”

Martin grinned at him, his face lighting up in a way that only served to highlight the shadow that had fallen over him since they had last spoken.

“Yes, you did, you big softy.”

“And I clearly overestimated the German Air Force.”

“Clearly.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what the world’s coming to if they let you near a Spitfire.”

“They haven’t, actually.” There was real longing in his sigh. “God, I’d like to get my hands on one of those.”

“I flew one the other day.”

“Really?” Martin leant forward. “What was it like?”

They spent a couple of hours, him discussing the various types of aircraft he got to fly, while Martin talked as much about his work as he was allowed. Apparently there were one or two bits of it that were too hush hush to talk about in too public a setting. 

The instant the clock chimed twenty-two hundred hours Martin declared that he had to get some sleep or he wouldn’t be fit to fly the next day. He had no idea how any pilot managed to dodge and dive the Luftwaffe for two years and still stay as by the book as Martin was. There ought to be a medal for that alone.

Incredibly, given the continuing storm and the chairs that simply had to be some kind of secret plan by Hitler to reduce morale, Martin appeared to drift off in no time at all. In fact, he wasn’t the only one, with the room slowly filling with the sleepy snuffles and occasional snore of the waiting airmen. Little by little he was left alone with his thoughts and the echoes of the laughter of youth.

He found himself watching Martin sleep and thinking about the young man he had argued with all those years ago. Thinking about the, dare he say it, hero he was becoming. Thinking about the next few years and whether they would see each other again at the end of it all. But most of all, he wondered how the hell the daft bugger had managed to fall asleep in these hellish devices masquerading as furniture.

With a sigh, he went to brave the viper’s den for another cup of tea, leaving his former captain to his dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> This seems a good place to remind people that a group of Cabin Pressure fans are going to see the Duxford air show on the 26th May. If you want to join in details are [here](http://trillsabells.livejournal.com/30506.html)


End file.
